As locals amble through the bounty of the farmer's market in the mid-August heat, Bobby Hill enjoys a cooling iced coffee and a cookie. It's a typical summer Sunday in the Takomas – Takoma, D.C., at the northernmost tip of the nation's capital and the bordering Takoma Park, Maryland – developed in the 19th century as a sylvan commuter suburb offering respite from the bustle downtown. For Hill, the proponent and presenter of free-jazz for the past four decades, it's home. Holding court at an outdoor table as he often does with his aging boxer, Y-Li – he fields warm hellos (I lost count at ten) during our hour-long chat. The unassuming Hill is a fixture at the buzzing Takoma Beverage Company where a recent Washington Post article on him is prominently displayed at the entrance. Several canine passersby beg acknowledgment he lovingly offers. A petite, white-haired woman, in blithe oblivion, engages Hill still after he cordially lets her know that he is being interviewed. Resplendent in a West African grand boubou, nearly levitating as he passes, a man calls out, "How you be beloved? Good to see you. Man, that was a great write up I saw in the paper!"

"I'm blessed. Thank you; I appreciate that," Hill says humbly.

"You're blessed because of yourself," the man adds, never breaking his confident, purposeful stride.

"Thank you, man, that's a nice thing to say," Hill calls after him. "There are good people in this world," he says, smiling, hand over heart. Beloved, yes. It quickly becomes apparent that he is just that in this diverse community. Were he campaigning for public office, he'd be a shoo-in.

The morning before, he sat just blocks away, in the studio of WOWD Takoma Radio, programming an homage to avant-garde pianist Cecil Taylor on the 3-hour Saturday morning show he shares with Clay Fink. Avant-garde. Out. Outside. Free. The self-described "mouthful" he termed "creative improvised music,' each an attempt to label music that defies category. He's taken to calling it "this music." He says, "I heard drummer Sonny Murray say that, and I've used it ever since. Yeah, that's my music, not any music, this music." 

His weathered t-shirt is a gift from friend and performance artist Diamanda Galás. Batik-dyed in a free-form scrawl, it bears the name of the show, the station call letters, and Hill's Wolof soubriquet, sdikiSerigne. Eyes closed, he is entranced, subsumed in sound, re-emerging intermittently to call the station ID and identify the tunes in his laid-back, velvety cadence. Calm as the wind on that summer Sunday he landed earthside sixty years ago.

Between takes, he shares his journey from late-boomer baby to college DJ and NBA hopeful, to retiring from a "high-level" government job, all while embracing the sublime beauty of atonality and dissonance. His is a decades-long quest to present this music on the airwaves and live in local venues.

In the mid-20th century, Washington, D.C., had three high schools for black students. Robert Hill and Doris Dunlap met as classmates at one – Francis Cardozo – cresting high atop 13th and Clifton Streets. The young couple would attend college together on another hilltop half a mile away at Howard University; the hilly locales auguring that from the Hill surname would grow family.

It came during their sophomore year, 1959, a watershed moment in their lives, a pivotal year in jazz. Lester Young and Billie Holiday drew their last breaths within months of each other; "Prez" on the ides of March, and "Lady Day" on July 17. Weeks later, on August ninth, Doris Dunlap Hill gave birth to Robert "Bobby" Hill, Jr. at the historic Freedmen's Hospital. On her firstborn's eighth day of life, Miles Davis released his seminal recording, Kind of Blue. Charles Mingus' Ah Um dropped in October, Ornette Coleman's The Shape of Jazz to Come, followed in November, and Dave Brubeck's Time Out rounded out the year in December. The legendary hotspot of D.C.'s African American nightlife, the subterranean Crystal Caverns, was sold that year and re-branded as Bohemian Caverns. Fifty-odd years later, Hill and the team at Transparent Productions would initiate a partnership with the straight-ahead venue to present a free-jazz series, Sundays @ 7.

Today's gentrified U Street Corridor was for many decades, a thriving, self-sufficient black community. An epicenter of entertainment, the Washington-raised Pearl Bailey, dubbed it "Black Broadway" for its plentiful performance venues: the Caverns, Club Bali, Club Bengasi, Republic Gardens, The Green Parrot, the Lincoln and Howard Theatres to name a few. It was a music lover's Nirvana. In the True Reformer Building, designed by John Anderson Lankford, the first African American architect registered in the District, DC native, Edward Kennedy Ellington, held his first advertised concert in 1916 at a nickel per head.

Bobby Junior's maternal grandfather, Monty Dunlap, enjoyed the orchestral sounds of the "Duke" and that other jazz nobleman, Count Basie. "My grandfather had records all over the place, and he loved to go see live music," Hill remembers.

With family all over town, young Bobby alighted in several Washington neighborhoods during its chocolatey heyday. First, at "Third and Atlantic, Southeast; then, right up Kenilworth Avenue at Mayfair Mansions in Northeast. That apartment complex was really nice. Back in the day, it was the place that Black folks aspired to before getting a house. Man, it was a great place to grow up," he remembers. He spent considerable time at his Grandma Lena's home at 12th and T Streets, Northwest, a stone's throw from Bohemian Caverns. "U Street was U Street then; it was popping," he recalls. "My aunt lived at 14th and Upshur, another beautiful place to spend time – right on the edge of Rock Creek Park".

He took up clarinet "in fourth or fifth grade," at Powell Elementary School, he says. "I blew on the clarinet terribly when I was young. I gave it up as soon as I could." But it couldn't dim the shine or draw of music. It was ever-present in his upbringing. His mother's older brother, Billy, was a musician. "He used to play in his basement, and it was crazy; you closed the door when Uncle Billy went down and started playing his horn or keyboards. I didn't recognize it as an out thing that I liked, I just knew it was twisted!" In retrospect, he questions just how "out" it actually was but concedes it was a challenging form of music for the time. "He was the only one playing the twisted stuff. Everybody else was inside, you know? Straight-ahead, the Blues, R&B."

“My parents were party people, they loved music. My aunts, uncles, everybody. I grew up with the basement always turning into a party and dancing for sure: James Brown, Staples Singers, Mandrill. I would stand at the top of the stairs and watch people be adults: act up in right ways and wrong ways. My mom worked for the government,” he says. “My father was a different kind of dude; nice guy, but a street guy and continued his movements in that world.”

A child of the 60s, he recalls the distant glow of fire and its wafting smoke in the anguished aftermath of Martin Luther King's assassination – and that his father was among the rioters. "He didn't live with me at that point and got locked up for doing that," he says. Bobby Sr. eventually landed in Lorton Reformatory, a maximum-security prison 20 miles from Washington, minimizing contact with his children, Bobby, Jr., and daughter, Beverly. Hill's mother, Doris, had remarried, and with her second husband, David Barge, had another son, Bryan. Hill describes his as a large, blended family with siblings from his parents’ first and second marriages.

At age thirteen, he saw his first R-rated movie, Lady Sings the Blues with his aunt. "She's only a few years older, so she's more like my sister. I wasn't supposed to be in there, I learned a lot about adulthood in that film," he quips.

It was a straight-ahead recording, John Coltrane’s "By the Numbers," that ignited Hill’s fervor for jazz. "I grew up with jazz all around me, but this is the tune that started me into this music. It's this long, beautiful, bluesy piece from the album, The Last Trane, which was his last recording for Prestige. It was the first time I said, 'Yeah, that's it, that's jazz.' I was around 15 or 16." His longtime radio followers will note that "By the Numbers" is the first tune Hill plays at the start of each new programming year.

His Uncle Billy's playing notwithstanding, his introduction to free-jazz was listening to Georgetown University's student-run WGTB-FM. "Hearing things that were different? It was WGTB for sure. I fell in love with listening to radio in DC – WOL, WOOK, early HUR [Howard University Radio] – in its earliest days, it was kinda out too." He recalls Vincent Thomas' Saturday night spot on WHUR giving way to a new day and young Melvin Lindsey's game-changing Quiet Storm in 1976. But the following year, Pacifica Radio launched listener-supported WPFW. "I heard it sign-on in February 1977, my senior year of high school. I stayed with it for the rest of the school year." Its influential programming provided content and context when he, as a college freshman, took to the sound board at Seahawk Radio, broadcasting from St. Mary's College in Southern Maryland. The WPFW signal was spotty in distant St. Mary's City. Still, whenever he could, he tuned in for Black Fire, from legendary music impresario, Jimmy Gray. "He was the man back in the day! Black Fire? He called me the hill of Bobby," he says with a smile. "And there were other people that took it out in those days. I listened to it all." From Art Cromwell and Ken Steiner's shows to Greg Tate's Strange Vibrations from the Hardcore: "I listened to that like religion," he says.

"Growing up in D.C., it was all sidewalks and bricks, so to get away to St. Mary's – water and trees everywhere was wonderful," he says. He knew he wanted to go away to college. He'd already grown accustomed to open spaces when his family moved from District urbanity into the Black suburbia of Oxon Hill, Maryland. He attended DeMatha Catholic High School, home to one of the top basketball programs in the nation, offering the pursuit of another of his passions – playing hoops. "I was the first point guard off the bench; our freshman squad was 29 -1. In my sophomore year, it was an amazing team, talented! Dereck Whittenburg, Sidney Lowe, they both came in as guards that year. I ended up being the last person cut, which was crazy for a team that had been 29-1, but there was so much talent. I wish I could have played the whole four." In his junior year, he transferred to the public Friendly High School, "where they hadn't won anything for a year before I got there." He wrapped up his senior year with a disheartening 0-49 team record, but things looked up at St. Mary's – he got his feet wet in radio and had a chance to shine as a ballplayer.

He mentions a road not traveled – Coach John Thompson and the Hoyas. "In my early years at St. Mary's, we played Georgetown, and he [Thompson] wanted to recruit me. I was impressed by that request, but when you transferred, you had to sit out a year, and I just couldn't see missing ball for a year." He says a bit wistfully, "Georgetown would have been a great move to make; who knows how much that would have changed my life and my basketball focus and flow." Adding, "You never know, but St. Mary's was good – I got a good education; fell into the professional field right away when I got out and met friends I'll have for the rest of my life," he says, accentuating the positive, as is his wont.

He clearly remembers his foray into radio deejaying: "I was walking down the hall my freshman year, the first semester, actually, and I saw people in a room with equipment and asked what it was about. They told me, so I asked if I could join. My first spot was a Thursday morning breakfast show from 5 AM to 8 AM. It made sense. I loved to eat, so I was always up there early to get food anyway. The show was called Textured Expressions, after the Herbie Hancock song on the recording Mr. Hands. It's a beautiful, hypnotizing piece," he says. It, like the Coltrane tune that leads the charge each programming year, is in annual rotation, "when I go through all my theme songs," he says.

He credits Patrick Ellis, a longtime DJ on WHUR's Gospel Spirit, as an early influence: "he's a great DJ; that's who I listened to, to learn about the art of deejaying; that's when I really fell in love with the business aspect of doing this thing." He deejayed for the duration of his college years.

Before retreating to his home to see the paraphernalia of his music life and the memorabilia of his college ball career, he excuses himself to "say hi" to yet another "friend." As Hill approaches the Old Town gazebo where a pooch sits between the feet of its owner, the dog's tail wags excitedly. Though the human conversation is cordial, it is clear that the friend here is of the canine variety. We agree to meet at his home; I jump on the local shuttle, he on his ever-present bicycle.

We arrive on his peaceful block at the same time — he really made tracks on that bike. Entering his home to a lethargic greeting from Y-Li in the 96-degree heat, the quiet is punctuated by the laughter and witty banter of his economist wife, Imani Drayton-Hill, and her sister Cathy as they casually dine in the spacious kitchen. Drayton-Hill, who naturally exudes a euphoric glow, is giddy as she shares the beginnings of their thirty-plus year love story. Early on, she tried to keep it on the friend tip, but "that didn't last long," she laughs. Her sister teases that then, "Everything was Bobby this, Bobby that, Bahhh-beee." While the Drayton sisters head off on errands, down into the mancave we go, where a double bass awaits his eventual return to play, and an impressive collection of vinyl records dominates a wall. "I did cassettes and 8-track too, did all that, but I love the wax," he says. And he plays it on Technics 1200 turntables: "the turntables everyone wants to have," he adds.

He returns to the subject of his busy college life. He was a business major, a disc jockey without a DJ handle, though known on campus as "Foot," and an all-around athlete. He played football, basketball, and baseball, before whittling it down to the gridiron and hoops. "Then, when I had knee issues, I decided to give up one – football." He became co-captain of the basketball team and won the Coaches Award. "I played point guard – first team, Division III, averaged 19 points a game; scored over 1,300 points during my four years there, which was pretty good. I'm very proud of that. A point guard doesn't usually score that many points.

He pulls out an album filled with news clippings:

Robert Hill’s showing unusually fine poise for a freshman guard … St. Mary's saw Bobby Hill turn in a 21-point, three-assist performance ... Hill had eight rebounds ... Robert Hill literally threw in a double-pumped, 16-foot jump shot with one second remaining to push the Saints past Catholic in overtime ... The one bright spot for St. Mary's was the play of its two guards, Bobby Hill and Mike Ayers ..."Foot" Hill sinks a thousand baskets!

A mention about senior Hill and his baby bro, freshman Bryan Barge playing in the same game (in which Hill scored 28 points and Barge, 17) makes him smile. "I forgot all about that, I'll have to show my brother."

"I am proud of this too," he says, pointing out pages yellowed and creased. "Ken Beatrice's (leading sports radio personality in D.C.) wrap-up of his prospects for top draft picks. He picked me as a guard to be drafted; it didn't happen, but he chose me."

Going into college, he had ball-playing aspirations. With no draft, he tried European basketball upon graduation. In 1982, he returned to the D.C. area, where his marks on the civil service exam secured him near-immediate employment with the government and the start of a lengthy career. "I was a Program Analyst, I initially worked with the Federal Regulatory Commission on the DAM charge system they had, and then I went to the Department of Energy and then FiSLIC (Federal Savings and Loan Insurance Corporation), where I stayed for a second before they closed down. I ended up at the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation, starting their first logistic management program and their first independent testing program, which I managed. Twenty-eight years. It was a good time, good people, but I left FDIC in 2007. I retired a little early. My goal was to work as hard as I could, go as high as I could, and leave as early as I could, and I accomplished all three. I got up pretty high in the government, but I did pull out. It wasn't my dream."

So throughout his government career, he continued to sate his appetite for music. Sure he worked his day job, but nights and weekends were for "living my life and doing the things I enjoy. You know, you do the 9-5, and you roll out." In the eighties, he collaborated with singer Arnae Batson (formerly of Sweet Honey in the Rock) on the series Jazz in the Palm Court, which took place every other Sunday at the Museum of American History with such artists as Geri Allen.

"I still wanted to deejay after college, and the only place to do it, really, was on PFW." In 1983, he went to the station, met then-General Manager, Marita Rivero, and expressed his desire to work at WPFW. "She gave me a broom and said, You can sweep this lobby because she wanted to see if I really wanted it. So I did, and not long after that came an opportunity to do an overnight show. Sunday nights for about a month because the host was going out of town." After that brief stint, they assigned him an early morning slot, 2:30 AM - 7:30 AM. "Back in the day, they put you on overnight first on PFW to prove your worth. I did that for about a year."

ReStRuCtUrInGs is something I started doing at WPFW around 1984, it came through playing hip hop music. I'd be playing the end of another song and start another and realized it sounded good together. I started playing Jazz pieces with hip-hop pieces, and it would work as an original flow of sound, not two sounds put together. I did an independent ReStRuCtUrInGs release myself. I probably have three to four hours of stuff.

And he started writing. Alona Wartofsky, music critic at [Washington] City Paper, hired him to write about rap and jazz." My first jazz piece was on pianist Matthew Shipp. And I also wrote an article about a band called Northeast Groovers when Go-Go was catching hell. It gave another perspective on Go-Go and the good things about it." Wartofsky brought him along when she left for The Washington Post, where he contributed pieces on Public Enemy and Butch Morris ("a front-page, cover story, I was proud of that!"). "Then I wrote for Point of Departure, a really nice jazz magazine for about a year."

At the station, he moved to a prime slot – drive time, Tuesday afternoon from 4-7 for a couple of years, and then the same time Thursday afternoons for a few more years. "I started out playing straight-ahead jazz, but moved quickly to playing other kinds of sounds too, and they welcomed them. They knew I was doing crazy stuff, so they moved me to Thursday nights for many, many years. Very few people were sharing that kind of music on the air, and it should be heard."

The move to Thursday night provided the opening for him to introduce the first hip-hop radio program in the D.C. area, The B Side. "I loved it! I had a great time doing that. It opened up the music in a different way. I was as out with that as I was with jazz, so it wasn't straight-ahead. I tried to bring other kinds of directions. Folks like Masta Ace weren't getting any air." For the "adventurous of ear," he presented an annual year-end special, Bring the Noise, on the instrumental music of Public Enemy. "No lyrics just beats. And that's not easy to do. I did that for about ten years on WPFW. That was special. I did a lot of things that you just didn't hear on commercial radio. There was no commercial radio playing hip hop back in the day. I remember listening to WKYS one morning, and they played an aggressive Public Enemy song, and the DJ came back on the air and apologized for playing it. I'd never heard of anything like that."

He went from spinning hip-hop to teaching it - a hip-hop culture course at George Mason University (GMU). Because of his radio program, Kim Chan of the Washington Performing Arts Society queried whether he knew of someone who could teach a hip-hop course at the collegiate level. "I said, 'I'm not a teacher, but I'd love to do something like that,' and I asked if I could co-teach it with someone." That someone was friend and scholar, Thomas "Bushmeat" Stanley, who was pursuing his doctorate in Ethnomusicology. "So we co-taught hip-hop culture twice a week for about seven years together; it was extraordinary."

He even wrote a book on hip-hop poetry, Dialogue of Transformation. "I looked at about 40 different artists, and I just wanted to celebrate their work." Though he never published it, he held a staged reading at The Source Theater. "It was one of the first public things Ta-Nehisi Coates did outside of writing. At the time, he was writing for Washington City Paper and the Washington Post. And Tracie Morris, Reuben Jackson, Toni Blackman, and Michael Ivey, all read from my book. I miss Michael Ivey, he was one of the most creative artists in DC," he muses. "I had turntables, so I was playing some music too, samples that went into poems." Somewhere he has the audio recording. "I was very proud of that. I'm proud of a lot of stuff." It's true that throughout our conversation, he refers to several points of pride – never a braggart – simply looking back with gratitude at all he's been able to achieve. 

Like the stint at GMU, as well as the various programs he's implemented at WPFW. Of the reception to his programming, he says, "There have been some head-scratchers, but there's been some love too." 

"I've done some special programs over the years." Given his penchant for music outside the mainstream, his tribute to Wynton Marsalis, Since Wynton, seems anomalous. "It sounds strange because what I do is opposite of Wynton Marsalis," he says, "but it was the anniversary of his debut recording. Over the month, I invited different musicians – inside and out and different writers to call in and talk about the importance of Wynton – good or bad. You may like him; you may hate him, but I just want your thoughts. It was so good; a home run!" 

Other specials of which he is particularly proud include: Jazz is the Teacher; Funk is the Preacher, from a James Blood Ulmer song; those produced with Herb Taylor on Funkadelic, George Clinton, and James Brown; and a program on single-instrument ensembles. "All trumpet ensembles, all guitar ensembles, Anthony Braxton played all reeds; those are some good memories." He chuckles when he recalls Laugh to Keep From Crying, a noontime comedy stream from his tenure as Interim Program Director for the station. It featured "a particular comedian, like Moms Mabley or Redd Foxx all week, with a five-minute routine at the top of the hour."

In December 2012, amid widespread speculation about the reason for his departure, Hill resigned his post. Not one to "drag things through the dirt," he says, "it just didn't work out; we [he and General Manager, John Hughes] had different approaches to programming, and it was best to say goodbye."

Not only had he worked for the station, but served on the board for two three-year terms: Secretary for the first; Vice-Chair for the second. "I'm very proud of what we were able to accomplish," he says, adding, "It's a beautiful place and can be a powerful place if they give it the respect that they should."

It is the place where he found his life's partner. He first met the lovely Mary Drayton at WPFW. "She was the Operations Director; she managed the day that I was on. The friendship was immediate, the relationship came later. She wanted to keep it friends-only, and I was cool with that, but it was stronger, and we felt it. We moved in and ultimately married."

As if cued, drumming rises on the tune playing in the background as he shares that they wed in a traditional African ceremony in his parents' home in 1987. By then, Mary had become Imani ("faith"), and Bobby was given the Wolof name, Sdiki ("faithful man"), during their nuptials. (Serigne, "calm thought through the heart before action" would come later at a naming ceremony in Senegal.) He says, smiling, "We're beautiful together. She's my heart, no doubt." And inspiration, no doubt, he named his publishing arm, BMADISH, after her initials (Bonnie Mary Angelyn Drayton Imani Safiyyah Hill).

As he'd done through his first career, during his second with WPFW, he additionally endeavored to exalt the music that gripped his being. At the WOWD studio, he speaks on the nascency of his presenting organization, Transparent Productions. His world had been blown open by his first experience of live avant-garde jazz. "It was a duet, upstairs at d.c. space, Ray Anderson on trombone and Anthony Braxton on contrabass saxophone. That's a big horn to get that sound out of, and he did, played it well. If there were twelve people up there, there were maybe two when the show ended. People just couldn't take that. But I did, I took it. The first live, out music I saw, and I dug it." When alternative performance venue d.c. space ceased operations at Seventh & E Streets downtown, in 1991 they left a void, now filled physically by a Starbucks and a plaque acknowledging its groundbreaking past. By 1997, Bobby Hill, Larry Appelbaum, Thomas Stanley, and Herb Taylor, all WPFW programmers lamenting its loss, co-founded Transparent Productions. A fifth person, another aficionado of this music, Vince Kargatis, also came aboard, as well as early assistance from District Curators' Lisa Stewart.

"We decided to give these concerts, and the musicians would get 100% of the door. No doubt, we come out of our pockets for things. We pay for our tickets. And sometimes, if it is a small house, we'll come out of pocket to supplement the artists' pot. We did it and still do it for the love of the music and nothing more. Our first concert was at Food for Thought on Connecticut Avenue; it's gone now. We presented Michael Bisio and Joe McPhee in duet. Our concert was announced as a collaboration with the District Curators' Jazz Festival, but it was ours. One-hundred percent went to the artists. In the first ten years we charged $10, which is cheap for a jazz concert; then $15 and now $20 for the last few. Still very affordable," he says. He wants artists to be paid equitably while keeping the shows accessible, and that includes choosing venues, when possible, close to the Metro. Looking at the day's playlist, he says, "I didn't realize when I put this show together, that many of the artists I've presented. Matthew Shipp, who we're listening to now, I've presented him many times in the D.C. area, at Bohemian Caverns and the French Embassy (to a crowd of 3000). Great concerts. We were listening to Mat Maneri before, I've presented him; Evan Parker, these are all people I've had the honor," he says emphatically, "straight-up honor, to present." Of the founding group, Hill is the last man standing. Others, including Sara Donnelly, Guy Fraser, and Chris Clouden, have been involved variously, but Hill has been the principal curator for over a decade, "and proud to do it."

In addition to presenting, he, too, has enjoyed performative engineering, creating improvised soundscapes with Mind Over Matter Music Over Mind, or MOM². "An original group, original music, not tunes. Me on turntables, Luke Stewart on electric and acoustic bass and MPC sequencer, Thomas Stanley on electronics and effects, and Chris Downing was acoustic piano and twirling knobs." They've shared their "expeditionary music" at the D.C. Public Library, among other places like George Mason University, where they presented "Cosmic Tones and Animated Landscapes." Ultimately, he says, "We all moved in different directions. Me first, mostly because of health reasons."

"After a life of athletics, movement, this just...popped up at 54," he says of Multiple Sclerosis. "MS, especially when it hits you; it kind of puts you in a fog. It hit me when I was still at WPFW, a late-night program. I lived in D.C. all my life and had been going to WPFW for years, but three times I got lost. The first time was twenty minutes, the second time about an hour and the third time I almost missed the whole show. Nothing looked normal, familiar." That prompted him to see a neurologist who diagnosed him with the disease and shared there are two main types: relapsing/remitting or progressive. "Because I'm into music, progressive jazz, I said, oh, I want that one. My doctor laughed and said, No, Mr. Hill, you don't want that one." Fortunately, his is the relapsing/remitting variety. "I've had only two relapses over this five, six-year period, which is good, it could have been much more."  Used to biking 17 miles each way to and from work, he is adjusting to the lifestyle changes. "I can't do that anymore." But he does tool around locally on his bike and insists that he must get into the habit of riding his stationary bike at home. "Gotta build it up," he says.

Soon after his departure from WPFW, he was back on the boards at WOWD. With his health challenges, working at a station in his community just made sense. "I'm in Takoma, I heard about the station. Marika Partridge is the founder, and she had history at NPR as one of the founders of All Things Considered back in the day. It's nice to come here and work with people who love radio, have history in radio, and it's in my community." He donated two turntables to the station.

On the state of things today, he bemoans the closing of Bohemian Caverns. "It was special," he says in near reverie, "that fireplace going while the music was playing, couldn't beat that. You felt like you were in a cave." Still, "A lot of spaces have opened up playing jazz." So he knows he's not the only game in town.

He was recognized with the 2014 Jazz Journalists Association Jazz Hero Award. It's a dichotomous distinction: he's both honored to receive it and slightly embarrassed by the "hero" verbiage. He doesn't perceive his 40 years of promoting, presenting, performing, and even pontificating about this music as heroic. "I get to hear music that wouldn't be here." That, in itself, is his reward. He did attend the ceremony, however, beset by an MS flare-up. "That was strange; my movement was really slow." He accepted the award with a simple "thank you," whereas, "normally, I would have said something more. But I was very proud of it."

When asked who he's excited about, who he thinks will move this music forward, he responds, "There are not enough, but Luke [Stewart] is one. James Brandon Lewis is another. Anthony Pirog, he's a guitarist I recorded and presented. But not enough young people in my mind." What about women? "I'd say Sarah Hughes is a standout. She plays this music really aggressively. Alto and flute. I presented her at Rhizome a couple of times. I did a tribute to Jimmy Lyons, the saxophone player who played with Cecil Taylor the longest. The first time I saw him was at d.c. space in the mid-80s—out. One of the greatest saxophone players in the world!"

Looking ahead, he has two independent book projects in the works. One, on his battle with MS and the other a riveting story tentatively titled Father Favor about an experience he had with his incarcerated father, "surrounded by a phalanx of guards.” He says, "I'd do anything my pops said. Always, even though he didn't spend much time with me. Not much time at all. But I was his son, and he was my father."

Given the opportunity to teach again, he'd take it. "I run into students from time to time. ‘Professor Hill?’ it was nice to be called that.”

He'll continue spinning on Saturday mornings webs of sonic imperative, ancient, future, free. "Radio was my entree into music, and I think it's most people's first exposure, so I wish there were more radio. There are still people making this music, and still many people who fiend for it. We need to have it." 

And, of course, he will uphold the legacy of Transparent Productions. "Every year, I say, okay, that's it, but I'm not going to stop any time soon. Hill is presenting three more concerts before the year's end, all in Takoma Park. Colla Parte on November 24 at Rhizome, 7 PM; Cooper-Moore on December 7 and Kaze on December 8 at Allyworld (At Tonal Park).

Bobby’s TROVE:

1 Y-Li. “Imani surprised me with her. We were going to dinner for our 20th anniversary and we took a detour to this house and this little puppy came running towards me. Dinner was a ruse." He adores the russet girl, who turned 14 on September 14, exceeding the life expectancy of a boxer. If it won’t have Imani packing their two cats and leaving, he laughs, he’d like to get two more puppies.

2. 1000-point Club ball. During a home game, the top-scorer became a member of the 1000-point Club in an induction ceremony at half-time.

3. “Foot” Hill tribute sign. When college teammates nicknamed him "Bigfoot," he wasn’t down; but the abbreviated “Foot” he could rock. “I was 'Foot' Hill the whole time I was there." During the 1000-point Club ceremony, the crowd raised handmade footprint signs bearing the moniker in his honor. "They were all over the stadium, and I got one to keep."

4. Jazz Arts ‘97 Dare to be Different t-shirt. District Curators' Jazz Arts Festival held June 27 - August 17, 1997 had an impeccable roster including: Don Byron's Bug Music, Randy Weston's African Rhythms, Hamiet Bluiett's Barbeque Band, Michael Ray & The Cosmic Krewe, Sunny Sumter, Orquestra Internacional Zeniza, Roy Haynes Quartet, Duke Ellington School Jazz Ensemble, Garth Fagan Dance, Joe McPhee & Michael Bisio, Monk's World, Marty Ehrlich & Muhal Richard Abrams, Equal Interest: Joseph Jarman/Leroy Jenkins/Myra Melford, Sam RIvers Trio, David Krakauer's Klezmer Madness!, Gaston Neal Benefit, Smithsonian Jazz Masterworks Orchestra, Steve Turre's Sanctified Shells, Chuck Brown * Second Chapter, Joe Bowie's Defunkt, Herbie Hancock & Wayne Shorter and Regina Carter. The Bisio and McPhee duet, though aligned with the festival, was produced independently by the founding members of Transparent Productions, its first TP presentation. "The year that Transparent started was the year District Curators ended. It gave me a goal to dare to be different." The tee is a reminder of Transparent Productions auspicious beginnings and bold vision.

5. The books he returns to, time and again. Blues People, by LeRoi Jones; Forces in Motion: Anthony Braxton and the Meta-reality of Creative Music (Interviews and Tour Notes New England, 1985) by Graham Lock.

6. Hand-carved walking stick. A gift created for him in Jamaica. “This is really special.”

7. djTrio set & recording at the Hirshhorn. A favorite Transparent presentation took place at Smithsonian's Hirshhorn Museum & Sculpture Garden in 2002. A trinity of turntablists, DJ trio is Christian Marclay, Toshio Kajiwara, and DJ Olive. "All improvised," Hill says. "I'd been trying to present Christian in some way, and we talked, and they debuted in the States at the Hirshhorn. I got in tight with the folks at the Hirshhorn, and they recorded it, and they projected video." Other TP presentations recorded live include William Hooker, Roy Campbell, and Jason Hwang The Gift: Live at Sangha in 2005 and Kahil El' Zabar/ Ethnic Heritage Ensemble Mama's House Live also at Sangha in Takoma Park in 2006.

8. Butch Morris. "Great musician. He was a cornetist, composer and arranger, well known for his conduction process which is conducted improvisions through signs and symbols. He invited me to meet him in New York in 1989 and we stayed in touch, friends ever since until he passed in 2013. A very sweet man." 

9. Cherished family photos. Among them, faded, creased and lovingly framed, a snapshot of him in infancy with his mama; a portrait of the beautiful newlyweds rests casually at the computer; and Bobby Hill, Sr. visiting Bobby Hill, Jr. at WPFW – his last photo with his son before passing away at age 62.

10. Double Happiness stone. He enjoys the sanctity and lush green of his and Imani's backyard and the happy accident of their garden stone serendipitously cracked to underscore "music." Apropos.